


Our hands don't Match (I don't mind)

by Kiyuomi



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 6 month anniversary, Angst, Character Study, Drama, F/M, First Love, Fluff, Food, News Media, One Shot, Prompt: Cultural Differences, only a little bit, rarepairsonice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 23:04:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9406862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiyuomi/pseuds/Kiyuomi
Summary: “JJ, these people don’t want two young idiots in love. They don’t want to accept that this world is full of them, us, idiots who don’t know a thing. JJ,” her voice softens and her hands return, reaching out to take his in hers, “our hands don’t match.”-Isabelle loves her boyfriend.She'd just love it if the rest of the world could love them too.





	

**Author's Note:**

> RarePairsOnIce day 5: Cultural Differences
> 
> JJIsabelle (I believe her name is Isabelle or Isabella depending on localization. In this fic, I will refer to her as Isabelle. They are the same person.)
> 
> Somehow, there didn't end up being many cultural differences.

                Truth be told, Isabelle always knew this day was coming. The day their differences would be made clear: he’s the model, she’s the stylist. There is no point to her creations without his body, and they both know it. He breaks into the top tier of anything he enters, whether it be fashion, music, or skating. She can, she knows she can, but the rest of the world doesn’t.

                Isabelle looks down at their hands, feels the scrapes and bruises of years of training burned into his, knows that hers are softer, delicate, and knows the truth.

                They aren’t the same, he and her.

                She just… didn’t expect the realization to come like this.

                “Babe, I made Chinese food for our 6 month anniversary!”

                Isabelle lets her eyes wander the table. Stereotypical Chinese cuisine, consisting of deep fried egg rolls, orange chicken and chicken stock wonton soup, mashed with a slightly different variation of stereotypical Chinese cuisine consisting of pig blood, tripe, chicken feet and frog legs, sit on the table. There are foods that take hours if not days to properly prepare well, and then foods that probably took a matter of minutes.

                “JJ,” she murmurs, “this is, um, great.” Her eyes wander across the table, intaking the variety of sauces and spices and the smells wafted upward. A particularly sour stench rises and she winces, scratching at her nose to rid herself of the smell of stinky tofu. “I really appreciate it.”

                “Great!” JJ beams, pulling out a chair from the very full table. The leg clatters and the glass top of the dining table shudders, squeaking noisily against its iron legs. Isabelle grimaces, fixing into a wide smile at JJ when he shrugs at her apologetically. The Canadian skater continues to fix the scenery, adjusting the corners of the tablecloth and fixing the colorful chopsticks aligned to napkins and silverware. “Isabelle, come on and take a seat.”

                “Sure,” she replied, pulling out her own chair and gently sitting. Pickled radish filled a plate at her front, crab Rangoon to her left and chicken feet to her right. She could feel JJ’s eyes on her as she picked up her chopsticks, slow. He hadn’t even sat yet, instead still, fingering the fraying edges of the tablecloth with a nervous gaze. For the first of that evening, Isabelle felt the tension radiating from JJ rather than her.

                “JJ,” Isabelle put down her chopsticks, two light “clinks” onto the porcelain plate set for her. There was a sharp intake of breath and she fixed her gaze on her boyfriend. “This food, I really appreciate it. But,” hesitation, worry.

                “But it’s not good enough.” JJ interjected, pulling at the cloth and causing the plates to shift, some loose forks and knifes spinning and noisily hitting the plates. “Ah,” the skater let loose immediately, guilt and worry flashing over his face, “Isabelle, I-I’m sorry.”

                “JJ?” Immediately the young designer rose, chair scraping across the ground in time as she came forward, heels clipping against tile floor until she met him, taking his hands in hers. “JJ, no, it’s okay. It’s not that it’s bad, just that, well,” she swallowed, rubbing her finger over his calloused palms, “it’s just. Er. It’s not Chinese food.”

                “What.”

                JJ stared at Isabelle, their hands still sandwiched together. “Wait, you were uncertain to tell me that the food wasn’t authentic? Are you-are you serious?” As he spoke, his voice spiraled upward, slowly reaching a squeaky shrill. “Isabelle, seriously?”

                “Seriously?” She echoed, raising an eyebrow. Her boyfriend’s hands shivered in hers, something akin to panic teasing along his skin and she tightened her hands, drawing in closer. “What did you think I was talking about? Actually,” her eyes dropped to the feast still on the table, “why did you think of this? I thought you liked going out for food.”

                “I do,” JJ groaned, turning away. His face was flushing, a light pink spreading along his neck to his ears. “I just, I don’t know. I panicked, okay?”

                “Panic?” Though there was nowhere to go, it seemed as though Isabelle was sliding in closer, eyes and ears adamant to hear the truth. “You, my fantastically talented and wonderful,” oh, now he really was blushing, “boyfriend—panicked? Over our 6 month anniversary?” Teasing doubt prickled in her words, stabbing little holes into the thin wall that had been building between them, awaiting someone to just try to jab at it. Here she was, adorning nothing but casual halter top and skinny jeans, but equipped with sharp words and strong feelings. “JJ, what’s really up?”

                The skater doesn’t respond, simply averting his eyes guiltily. Normally, Isabelle would simply grapple with him and either tickle out the answer or nab his phone in exchange for one, but this was a bit more delicate. Still, she knew him. He knew her. Isabelle Yang is not known as the most patient designer in the world.

                “I,” he swallowed. Easy, gentle, she slid her hands up his arms; comfort. “I guess I got swept up in the media. I just,” pause, breath, simple, “got worried. A little bit.”

                The media.

                The air gets tense, sudden. The wall between them shatters to reveal another, heavier, one that wasn’t placed and grafittied with “knock me down, open me up.” Isabelle blinks to see JJ’s face not at her front but at another woman’s side; a young blonde lady that seemed to suit him much better, both posing in an advertisement. She sees the headline flash by, “Hit singer with another babe!” The thought spirals upward, little twisting vines of words and hisses that braid into chains, harsh and jaded from past celebrity break ups. She refocuses on the boy in front of her, sixteen and just three months older, and sees him on screen, singing a song about words he doesn’t know and talking to an audience that doesn’t care to know him and her heart looks at the wall and screams.

                “Another mixed couple—the latest celebrity fad?!”

                They weren’t. They’re not.

                “Young love—but when is the breakup?”

                Life and time, she imagines, causes the rust that erodes the beautiful gold of words into the ugly red accusations that burn them. But this love hasn’t been rusted. Their love isn’t awaiting a breakup. They’re not.

                “JJ and supermodel Katherine spotted at post-party. Is JJBelle over?”

                They’re not.

                They’re not; they’re not, and the fire in Isabelle burns.

                “They’re wrong.”

                JJ startles, looking expectantly at his girlfriend as her eyes slit, her mouth straightens and her face darkens with thought. Her hands get tighter, unintentionally, digging into his sleeves. He opens his mouth to ask, to question, but she continues a storm of hammers raining down.

                “They don’t know anything about us. JJ, who, and really, I mean, who cares?” Her fingers loosen. She steps away but her steps rock and she seems closer, stronger. “What do strangers know? Writers? Editors? People who have seen minutes of us and stapled a one word trope onto our relationship? JJ!” Isabelle’s grinning, a familiar spark rising in her eyes and even as she’s waltzing away with frantic moving hands and waving arms; JJ feels the magnetic pull from her, strong.

                “We’re not just a mixed couple. We’re not just a power couple. We’re not just a couple!” Maybe she’s ranting. Maybe her thoughts, her own muddled slush and contorted expressions are pouring into each other, overflowing the dam that keeps her fears from the outside world. “JJ, these people don’t want two young idiots in love. They don’t want to accept that this world is full of them, us, idiots who don’t know a thing. JJ,” her voice softens and her hands return, reaching out to take his in hers, “our hands don’t match.”

                He chuckles, soft and endearing, and she knows that he doesn’t understand a thing she’s saying. But Isabelle’s chest feels lighter, stronger, and the birdcage of “difference” is just crumbling beneath her feet. She runs her fingers over his, feeling the little burn marks and cuts, the rough callouses of ice and the tense skinniness requite of models.  She’s never been taken by ice, never like him. But even though her hands are soft from years of lotion, she has pricks along her palms where the sewing needle was forced through fabric, the little never faded marks along her pinky where the pen smudged and the small band of purple around her ring finger that never faded from forcing on a too small ring. She’s never been taken by anything as much as fashion, but somehow, she’s taken by him.

                “Is that a good thing?”

                “Yes.” She squeezes his hands and smiles, free. His skin is darker than hers. His hands are wider than hers, and in a month or five he’ll finally surpass her in height. It’s dumb, they’re dumb, dumb and young and in love. The cloudy wall surrounding her disappears and Isabelle opens her eyes to someone who is really, truly hers.

                Grinning, Isabelle tugs at JJ’s shirt. The skater stumbles, feet catching on hers and she’s suddenly leaning in, and their lips meet. It’s familiar, physical, wanted. Their hands don’t push, just stray along in unison, little safe movements. Little soft touches. JJ sighs into her mouth and she feels her heart burst. Their lips break apart, just a sliver for a breath, and she talks.

                “I love you.”

                JJ freezes. His body goes shock-still, eyes widening in realization as Isabelle’s soften, and she sighs, squeezing into his frame with their hands still interlocked. She’s sliding in, legs zig-zagging his and huddled into his form, and feels his body slacken. Looser, lighter, he speaks.

                “I love you too.”

                That was all she had wanted from this anniversary.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this hurt my heart.  
> JJ/Isabelle(a) is so good. They're both such wonderful people, I hope they can be together forever.
> 
> I want to finish my First Date fic. Hopefully, I can update before Monday with another fic. It is also for RarePair week but first week back at college is wrecking me.
> 
> As always, send me prompts at yuri-Yaoi.tumblr.com


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